


Outlast The Night

by HarcourtHolmesII



Category: Dead by Daylight (Video Game), Outlast (Video Games), Outlast: Whistleblower - Fandom
Genre: Abduction, Abuse, Angst, Blood and Gore, Bullying, Death, Emotional Abuse, Expect There Will Be Dark Themes Throughout, Hurt/Comfort, Insanity, Manipulation, Multi, PTSD, Please don't copy to another site, Sexual Assault, Sexual Harrassment, Suicide Attempt, Swearing, Tags Will Be Updated Per Released Chapter, The Two Fandoms Are Outlast And Dead By Daylight So..., Torture, Trauma, Violence, more tags to come, warnings per chapter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-17
Updated: 2020-11-27
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:48:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27602339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HarcourtHolmesII/pseuds/HarcourtHolmesII
Summary: He should have been out.He should have been gone and halfway home, at least. Instead, when the car was sent careening through the warped metal of Mount Massive's front gate, Waylon wakes up elsewhere. It isn't Lake County and it is no place he recognizes. Afraid and unsure what is going on, his only knowledge is what these strangers have told him; for now, he's trapped, and must try and survive the sadistic games the Entity forces him to play. Is it the Walrider? He's not sure.But what Waylon doesn't know will kill him, if it finds him again. The monsters that scream and set traps for him to fall into are horrible, but Waylon has survived monsters before. And he will do it again. That is, so long as the monster from his memories remains a mere memory. Though, ever since he fell into the world, that voice has grown ever louder; that charming song and sensual baritone that he thought died in the Vocational Hall.'When I was a boy, my mother often said to me,Get married, son, and see how happy you will be...'
Comments: 30
Kudos: 43





	1. Escaped

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings:  
> \- Post Traumatic Stress Disorder  
> \- Trauma  
> \- Sexual Assault (Heavily Referenced)  
> \- Physical Abuse  
> \- Attempted Murder (Heavily Referenced)  
> \- Gore  
> \- Blood  
> \- Swearing

Waylon’s head was pounding, a great blistering white pain behind his right eye. Attempting to open his eyes, he felt his muscles stitch and pull tight from the stress. It hurt. A knife had been plunged deep into his skull, he was sure of it.

He tried to sit up, feeling a thin cloth fall from his shoulders to come to a rest in his lap. An unknown hand was upon his shoulder suddenly, and he was reacting. Too many hands, unwanted and perverse, had touched him within the last 24 hours and he sought an end to it. He wrenched himself away at such speed, peeling back the cloth so as not to tangle his legs, and he was backing up. His back met a wall of cold brick and a shower of dust came down over his head.

The offensive hand and its partner were raised in surrender; connected to thin arms that were, in turn, connected to a thin figure. A woman.

He was confused. He hadn’t seen a woman in several weeks since he had taken the job at Mount Massive. There were no female employees of Mount Massive; not anymore. And he certainly didn’t recognise this young face.

The moon provided a monochrome that dulled all colours, but wisps of fire from a nearby barrel shone a kinder sheen across her features. She was young, certainly younger than Waylon, but where she should be full of life, she was drained and held an exhaustive gaze. Perhaps, even a bored look; like she had been through this situation many times before.

In the moonlight, her skin appeared a grey-blue, only by the flame was it revealed to be a coffee tone. Darker brown hair came down to her shoulders, tied back in a tangled knot; beneath her fringe, a pair of blue rimmed glasses with cracked frames. Her clothes were simple, but what caught Waylon’s gaze were the cuts deep through cotton and jeans, showing off bandages and pink scarring.

‘Hey.’ It seemed she had been trying to get his attention. He felt his cheeks heat up with some embarrassment. One look at this woman proved she was not the monster he had been running away from. ‘I’m not trying to hurt you. If you don’t mind, I would just like to check on your leg.’

His leg? Right, he had nearly forgotten the wound there. He licked his lips, raising his leg out from under the cloth so he could see it and she could tend to it. His jumpsuit was torn up to the knee, a bandage wrapped from calf to foot. In the middle, a damp, bloody spot was present, and now that he could see it, he could feel the warmth and the wet of the blood on his ankle.

With gentle and tender fingers, she had begun unraveling the bandage. It was an achingly slow process though it had to have lasted less than a minute. Once the bandage was removed, he felt his stomach lurch up and begin to contend with his lungs. He leaned over the side of the mattress as bile rose in a sudden wave of sickness. He wretched, loud and violently onto the rickety floorboards. There was a gentle pat to his back, the hand then returned to gently examining his foot. Every turn of the leg made his stomach twist and his throat clench tight as if it was in _his_ hands again.

Wait a moment!

He begun to hurriedly unbutton his shirt, the girl’s protests falling on deaf ears as he pulled the suit apart, revealing his chest and his unmarred stomach. His hand shook as he rested it just below his naval, pulling it back as he felt the ghost of a knife enter into his stomach. And yet…

‘I… I don’t understand…’ His voice was shaking. It felt like he hadn’t spoken in years. His voice was unfamiliar and even alien to him. ‘I… I was stabbed. Blaire, he- It was him! He stabbed me! But how-!’

‘Quiet!’ It was now that Waylon looked up at the girl again, noting how her hands were to her ears, pressed tight and her lips pulled into a thin line. She was gritting her teeth like a bomb had just gone off. He waited a few moments, and slowly, her eyes opened, looking at him. She seemed angry. ‘No yelling! No more, understand?’

‘No.’

‘No?’

‘No more yelling, I mean. I-.. I won’t.’ He swallowed around a lump in his throat, waiting for her response. Like a light switch, the anger had all but fled from her features, replaced instead by curiosity. She rested a hand on his stomach, Waylon biting his lip to prevent himself from freaking out once more.

‘You were stabbed?’

‘Y-Yes.’ He could remember how the fucker had begged him closer, hand outstretched and desperate for help. All to pretend and kill anyone that came close. Like him. He had thought about it; maybe if he helped him, Blaire would speak out against the company after the breakout and all the horrors that they both surely experienced. Instead, he had felt that strong hand grasp his wrist, pulling Waylon down and simultaneously pulling Jeremy up until there was the burning sensation of cold metal buried hilt deep in his gut.

‘Here?’ Her fingers on his stomach were cold and though soft and gentle, he couldn’t stand it. Not since _he_ had touched him.

‘Y-Yes. Please, stop.’ And she did. The woman was quick to remove her hand, humming in thought as she started rifling through a nearby medical kit. Clean wrappings were pulled free, and she returned to her work on his leg. Her eyes were trained on his wound, but he could see her nose twitch ever so slightly. He wouldn’t blame her if she wanted to leave. He, too, felt sick, just being in the same room as the smell of infection and vomit.

It was only a few minutes, but then she was standing, offering both of her hands down to him. He was hesitant, but he took her hands and was helped to his feet. He had fought through the pain before, and by God he would do it again.

Now that he was standing, he allowed his eyes to drift and cast their gaze over the room. The moonlight that acted as their major light source was visible due to a lack of ceiling atop the building. The building’s walls were mostly intact, but it seemed that the building had not completed its construction in the first place. Two door frames were sat opposite to the top of the stairwell, one boarded up whilst the other allowed a steep drop to the ground below.

He was led to the stairwell, where he felt his uneven steps come to a halt. Beneath the two of them, the ground floor of the building was dark. It wasn’t like the dark of the Vocational Hall, but it was just as foreboding.

‘Afraid of stairs?’

‘What? No, of course not. I just…’

_The man downstairs._

‘Never mind.’

They traversed down the stairs, Waylon’s eyes wide and looking about in all directions. The moonlight gave him sight that he had so wished for in his escape from Mount Massive, but it did bring with it the mirage of twisted images. A flash of silver was a blade in the dark. Brick dust that glided slowly to the ground in a soft cloud was instead the dripping scarlet of a body hanging from the roof. Every sound put him on edge. He was just waiting to hear _his_ voice again; and it was something he hoped he would be forever waiting for.

As they came to the bottom of the stairs, heavy footsteps greeted them. Waylon ducked for cover behind a heavy crate, pulling the woman beside him, and as she opened her mouth to protest, he shook his head. He was silently pleading with her to stay quiet. Please, he prayed, do not say a word.

‘Claude? Are you 'ere?’

The voice was scouse, a thick accent with a great emphasis on the vowels, drawing out the words. Also, a gruff tone to go with it, harsh but not angry. ‘Claude’ took to standing, despite Waylon’s attempts to pull her back, waving at the man that had entered.

‘David.’

‘Claude. Wha’ the fock are you doin’ back there?’ One look at Waylon, who had begun backing up and away into the corner, and this man’s face turned properly sour. ‘You’re not serious, are you? Wha’ the Hell is this little gobshite? How the fock is ‘e supposed to help us?’

‘Well, he’s one of us now, David, whether we like it or not. Help me get him back to the others, will you?’

‘Others?’ Waylon didn’t mean to speak, but the rough and hulking figure of the stranger, David, was worrying him. How easily could those hands lift him? How strong were their grasp? And how-

‘Yeah, mate. Others. Come on.’ He was on him in a moment, and Waylon shrieked at the top of his lungs. Suddenly, those hands were upon him again and he could feel the nails digging into his skin despite the suit. He was pushing at those arms and the large body of the man before him, kicking desperately as shocks of electricity ran up from his ankle. He could feel the wetness growing behind his bandages and in his pants.

‘Shite! E’s gone and pissed ‘imself!’ The moment those hands were gone, Waylon made his escape. He launched himself back and through an empty window frame. He landed in soft grass and dry soil, and immediately, he was pushing himself to his feet.

He took off at a run, despite the limp. Great pine trees stood strong all around him, unlike the dead pinyon pines that lined the road leading up to Mount Massive’s front gate. There were crates everywhere, broken brick walls and log piles, stacked high into the sky. There was the heavy scent of coal in the night air, and what struck him first was that this was not Lake County, Colorado.

What struck him second, was a body tackling him to the ground. He cried out, feeling strong arms wrapped around his middle. He struggled, turning onto his back, attempting to push them away.

‘Stop!’ He was screaming. ‘Please stop! Get away from me! Don’t touch me! Don’t!’

He couldn’t breathe. He was panting, his gaze blurring between blues and greys and greens. The figure holding him was unfamiliar still, smaller than he but with an athlete’s strength. No. Inhuman strength. _His_ strength.

‘Get away!’

‘Shut him up!’

A sudden slam of a boot met his forehead. It was unlike _his_ boot, which crushed him slowly and almost gently. He remembered how _his_ face still held a smile, almost kind and almost tender.

His world went black to the sound of voices; one worried, one pissed and one just confused. The arguing faded into obscurity, but soon, Waylon was awoken by the sound of a saw, and the cries as men were snipped and mutilated mere inches away. He could hear _his_ words; soft and oh so charming. Tears were trailing down his cheeks.

He was back in the asylum.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my first time attempting a Dead By Daylight or an Outlast fanfiction, and I am so far, proud of it.  
> It is supposed to be dark and brutal, certainly, but a warning will also be placed here for those that may read this note; I may be including some pairings in this that are not healthy. Pairings like Waylon Park x Eddie Gluskin do peak my interest, but I am still deciding as to whether I would include it. Let me know what you think as the story progresses. Also, I would just love to hear your thoughts on this first chapter and what follows! I appreciate all comments, and greatly appreciate constructive criticism.
> 
> Kind regards,
> 
> HarcourtHolmesII.


	2. Strange Faces

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings:  
> \- Sexual Harrassment  
> \- Torture  
> \- Restraints  
> \- Physical Abuse  
> \- Bullying  
> \- Disturbing Imagery  
> \- Violence  
> \- Nudity  
> \- Blood

He was restrained, ropes bound tight around his wrists and his ankles. His right leg screamed in agony, but no matter how hard he tried to move his hands and feet, they only gave a few short millimetres. He was trapped. His body was strapped to a strange wooden contraption, its only use being to string him up for the ‘surgery’.

Darkness enveloped the room and the corners of his vision were still glossy from the gas he had been fed through a tube. 12 whole hours he lost, at least, and all he could think was how worried Lisa must have been, trying to explain to their boys that he would be returning home soon. As he felt gentle fingers rest on his hand, those thoughts fled from his mind, just as Waylon wished he could do. Lisa and the boys never should be exposed to this, figments of his thoughts or otherwise.

Those fingers ran lightly over his arm, down to the crook of his shoulder and up to his collar. When they passed this by and continued their path to just across his jaw and cheek, Waylon’s breath caught in his throat. He began to suffocate. The hand led a trail up a strong arm and chest hidden beneath a patchwork vest and bow, and then the figure disappeared past how far his vision could reach in the dark.

And yet, he could see those white, soulless lights stare right back at him.

The hand on his cheek was gentle, the thumb skirting the flesh of his plump, dry lips. There was a sting, and when Waylon winced the hand pulled back, revealing a touch of crimson upon the thumbnail. The hand disappeared into the dark, and when it returned, the red was gone, though the thumb had a slight shine to it.

Suddenly, the hand was returned to his cheek, thumb pressed to Waylon’s lips and it waited there, almost patiently. There was a slight pressure and then Waylon’s lips parted, his body still weak from the drugging. There was a sound, soft, but it made Waylon feel a chill run up his spine. The sound was _his_ voice, moaning ever so softly.

He tried to turn his head and remove the intrusive digit, but instead his lips parted for an index finger. Waylon groaned, biting down as hard as he could until finally, those digits were pulled free roughly. There was a sharp smack across his face; Waylon could feel the skin on his nose tear.

His whole body was shook by the pain that he felt himself suck in a deep breath and his body near convulse. His naked body, the wooden restrains and that strong body disappeared entirely into the dark, replaced instead by his waking eyes and a view of the outside world.

Before him stood a face he somewhat recognised, hand raised but held by another. Someone he didn’t recognise. In fact, as he peered around at a small campfire and fallen logs and burning barrels, he caught eyes with many unfamiliar faces. The majority of them were about and doing their own thing, ignoring him for the most part. Before Waylon, however, three people sat.

David, he recognised. It seemed that it was he that had slapped him across the face to wake him. The woman who was holding his arm was not ‘Claude’, but a white woman with golden, straw-like hair and some inking up her arms and shoulders. The man next to her, further back and almost timid, was boyish in appearance, dark hair and glasses with a striped tie hanging loosely from his neck.

The woman responded first to him, dropping David’s arm to sit closer and offer her apologies. In her hands was a flatly carved rock with a curious selection of foods. Two fried eggs, smaller than most chicken eggs, a block of yellow cheese with a slight blue sheen, and half a grey sausage. Whatever look that crossed Waylon’s features, she offered an apologetic smile in return before placing the ‘plate’ beside him. It seemed they were all unsure how to talk, but it was David that eventually broke the silence.

‘Eat. I won’ let you waste it, and will eat if you don’t.’ Waylon trusted that statement, and despite his disgust, he was starving. The eggs and sausage were still steaming, and his stomach was screaming. He dived for it, not caring if there were any forks or knives, but biting hard into the sausage. It was bitter, but he didn’t care. It was perfect.

David rolled his eyes and took to standing, stepping away from the small group they had made and going to approach a man sitting on his own by the fire. He was sat with his legs on either side of the log, looking down at something upon the seat. When David joined him and the two of them raised their hands, Waylon could see that it was a set of cards. It seemed David had a full house.

‘I’m sorry ‘bout him.’ The woman spoke up, her voice a southern drawl. ‘He doesn’t mean to be, well, mean. David’s never been the best with new faces.’

‘You could certainly say that again, Kate. Doesn’t mean he should have hit you though.’ The boy stepped forward, offering a wet towel to press to Waylon’s scalp. Just beside his temple, there was a deep ache from within his head, Waylon now reminded of the boot that knocked him out. He had nearly forgotten about it. ‘Damn. Meg did a number on you. We’re gonna have to have a talk with her when she gets back.’

He placed the now empty plate down, Waylon taking the damp cloth from the boy and skirting back and away from the two of them. ‘W-Where am I?’ The both of them looked between each other, sharing a similar look of almost embarrassment.

‘I’m afraid we don’t actually have an answer for that. Right now, though, we can assure you that you’re safe. No one is about to hurt you. Again… I mean…’ The boy had started to ramble.

‘What we mean is, we were all a little surprised by your appearance. We’ve just had Élodie join us only a little while ago, so when you came, it caught us a bit off guard. That, and because you came, well, damaged.’ She mentioned, gesturing to his leg. ‘Though, we are curious; what did you do?’

Waylon furrowed his brow in confusion.

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Your suit. You were a prisoner, right? So… What did you do to be put in the big house?’ Now, it seemed all eyes were upon him. Of course. How did he forget about his jumpsuit? Of course no one would think he was the one that was wrongfully thrown into the asylum.

‘I…’ How did he explain this though? Would they even believe him? ‘I worked at M-Mount Massive asylum, and when I saw all this horrible… stuff… g-g-going on, I sent through an email t-to an investigative reporter. I was… caught and was thrown into a cell to c-cover up their tracks.’ He was under great scrutiny from the two strangers before him and the remaining eyes. ‘I swear it. I d-didn’t do anything wrong.’

‘Hey.’ The girl’s warm hand on his brought him back to the present. He only just realised how his breath had been stifled deep within his chest and how his head had begun to spin. ‘It’s alright. We believe you.’ There was a scoff from David.

‘What’s your name?’ The boy asked, offering an apologetic smile.

‘W-Waylon. Waylon Park.’

‘Dwight Fairfield. This is Kate.’ The kindly woman’s smile was almost infectious. Almost. ‘You’ve met David. We’ll be sure to introduce you to everyone else. Trust me, whether you like them or not, you’re going to want to get to know everyone.’

‘Um…’ Why was he asking this? ‘W-Where is… Um… C-Claude?’ The two of strangers cocked their head in confusion. 'S-She was w-with me when I f-f-first woke.'

‘Claudette?’ Kate bit her lip. ‘She’s in a trial, at the moment. She will join us soon as will the others.’

Then, there was a screech of something Waylon had never before heard. It was faint, and carried a great distance by the wind, but it was a high pitched cry of something animalistic and alien. He had never heard such a sound before in his life, but only a few heads turned in recognition of the alien cry. A few whispers were passed between the strange band of characters, some worried, others like David and his poker partner undisturbed.

‘We have a lot to explain, and it is not easy to explain. Come. We’ll introduce you to the others once the trial ends.’ Dwight offered.

There was a scream this time, high pitched and visceral. The raw pain felt caused everyone to flinch.

‘It should end soon.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If I missed a warning, do let me know! Also, do let me know what you think of this next chapter! We're getting a few introductions all around, and a trial is in progress. There will be plenty of familiar faces introduced in the next chapter and we may get a little more insight into the realm and its inabitants.
> 
> I would love to hear your thoughts!
> 
> Kind regards,
> 
> HarcourtHolmesII.


	3. Trial Results

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings:  
> \- Insults  
> \- Blood  
> \- Implied Major Character Death  
> \- Trauma

Fifteen minutes after he had been rudely awoken, Waylon was standing with the group, watching in silence as two forms stumbled through the dark towards them. Kate was with him, supporting him on one side, but he could feel her shaking against him. There was the slight shine of tears peaking at the corners of her eyes, but she kept her mouth thin and her eyes straight ahead.

The fire cast shadows deep into the surrounding woods; Waylon had learned it was a beacon for others to follow to safety. Once a trial was finished, they would have to try and find their way back if they survived it all. It still made him sick to think about; when Dwight and Kate explained it to him, it was all so surreal. Surely, it couldn’t be true what they were saying.

David and his poker partner, Ace (as Waylon had learned), were none too interested in explaining its rules or backing up Dwight and Kate’s claim. David, he learned, was always a little jaded; once, he was a ‘debt collector’, and was arguably the scariest man one would ever meet. Now, it was he that was always on the run. Ace on the other hand, didn’t care much for the explanations. The wiry Argentinian was more interested in taking his mind off the trials, whether that be gambling, play fighting or flirting. Waylon, when he had first spoken to him, he regarded as ‘too much of a coglione’ to take up his time. According to Kate, he did so love to reference his Italian heritage.

Now though, everyone was stood and watching the woods; watching as those dark characters crept forward almost blindly in the dark. Waylon could only see two of them, though. Just two? That could not have been right. There were four per each trial, as he was told and the trial was now over. Surely that meant that the others were just lagging behind? He dared to hope. David had scoffed at Kate’s earlier statement that they ‘should hope all of them come back’. Waylon, however, took that statement to heart. He needed to know they would all come back.

The first of the two shadows to finally join them in the clearing, basked in a golden glow, was a pale, thin and lanky woman. She was hunched over, even now as she stood, as if keeping her head low for cover. Her face was stern, harsh, and he could see how there was a dark red stain that spread out like spilled ink from a wound in her right shoulder. She clearly favoured it, and once she had stepped out from the woods, it surprised Waylon to see how it was David that had first rushed over to her.

‘Nea!’ She landed in a heap in his arms, David catching her easily and lowering them both to the ground as he knelt there. Dwight had rushed forward with him, medical pack in hand and already drawing out some bandages. Kate’s boot was tapping the dirt, impatient to rush forward and also dive in to help. She didn’t however, if only for Waylon’s sake.

‘Mayday…’ The girl’s voice was faint and as she spoke a wash of blood spattered across her lips and chin. ‘It’s David showing feelings again.’ She teased, and Waylon was surprised to see how the man just rolled his eyes at her statement, and his lips pulled back in half a smirk. It was… strange, to see such a smile.

‘Shut your mouth or I’ll break your teeth.’

‘You don’t have the stones, King.’

‘I’ve got two more than you ever will.’ And a laugh was shared between them; one hearty and loud, the other exhausted and broken.

From the trees, the second character approached, lit up to reveal fiery hair held back in a high ponytail. She was athletic, and something about her caught Waylon’s eye and memory. He wasn’t sure how he recognised her.

‘Meg!’ Kate spoke aloud, excited to see her. Ah, so that was where he knew her. When the girl met his eyes, she had the gall to look a little embarrassed.

‘Hey, Kate.’ She circled around the group on the ground and made her way over to the two of them, hand rubbing at the back of her scalp sheepishly. ‘Hey, new guy… Sorry for the bump.’ Waylon raised a hand to the side of his head where a band-aid had been stuck to cover the cut.

‘I-It’s fine. W-Where’s Clau-’

There was a sharp intake of breath, all heads turning to the girl who was now in the dirt, holding her hands to her chest like she had just suffered a wound. Meg bit her lip and her words back, whilst Kate gently helped Waylon to sit down on a fallen log. She made her way over to the girl that was now crying out in anguish.

Nancy Wheeler, as he had learned, had been waiting for her friend, Steve Harrington to return. The two had been pulled into the Entity’s realm together and had stuck together like glue, and even now, the two of them couldn’t stand to be apart. She, unlike the others, had only come to the campfire so as to wait for him to return, and Jake Park, a loner who had remained on the outskirts of the campfire, had come to watch out for her.

Steve and Claudette hadn’t returned.

He felt a cold chill run through him, and the heat of the fire did nothing warm the shock to his system. Kate and Jake, who were both beside Nancy, one attempting to console whilst the other offered a silent hand of comfort, looked up to where Dwight had finished bandaging Nea’s injured shoulder. David had lifted her to her feet, but Nea had been quick to push him off playfully, smiling despite the wound.

‘We need to move.’ Dwight hummed, closing the medical kit and taking to stand. ‘Nancy…’ The girl did not look at him. ‘We need to go, now. Before they come looking for us.’

‘I-I’m sorry, but b-before wh-… who comes l-looking for us?’ Waylon asked, catching the eyes of Nea who hadn’t seemed to have noticed his presence until now.

‘In the trials, there are rules to follow. But out here…’ Dwight gestured to the surrounding woods. ‘We’re free game. It will be a while before we are in actual trouble, but if we don’t move now, we’ll be stuck out here in the woods with nowhere to hide.’

‘The trials are bad, but if you’re caught out alone, it’ll be worse.’ Kate said, helping Nancy to her feet. He could see how the girl was wiping her grey-green eyes free of tears, but not as fast as they were pouring.

‘Think you can keep up, jailbird?’ Ace teased, already making a move away from campfire and into the opposite side of the clearing.

‘W-Where are we going?’

‘Well, the coal tower isn’t safe anymore. The others should be at Lampkin by now.’ Dwight hummed. ‘Let’s get moving, everyone.’

‘Don’t have to tell me twice, Fairfax.’ Nea huffed a painful bout of laughter, whilst David just smiled at her little nickname.

‘H-How do you know w-where w-we’re going?’ Waylon was still embarrassed by how shaky and weak his voice was. He didn’t mean to sound so scared and helpless, but he was just so confused by it all. ‘I m-mean… W-… Well, everything l-looks the s-same from here… How do we know where t-t-to go?’

‘We’ve marked the trail.’ Nea offered, gesturing between herself and Jake. ‘If you get lost, just follow the obvious signs.’ She pointed to a carving on one tree of an X and then on another tree, there was a royal purple spray of ‘Mashtyx’ against its black bark. ‘They’ll lead you back to the campfire or to one of our safe houses.’

‘You’ll know the Lampkin Lane base; it’s double storey house with yellow panelling. The door will not be boarded up but the windows are.’

‘Avoid the big blue house at the centre of the street.’ Kate warned, joining in Dwight’s advice. ‘Whatever you do, give it a wide berth and do not approach.’

‘O-Okay…’

‘If you get lost or left behind, just keep an eye for the marks and if you hear or see anyone in the woods that is not us, run or hide. Do not talk to them and do not get their attention.’ Dwight was in his face right now, his tone serious and very much unlike the timid boy Waylon thought he was. ‘If you end up at a location that does not have the sign for Lampkin Lane, keep looking.’

‘I… I will.’

‘Good. Alright then, people. Keep close and keep pace. If you’re left behind…’ Waylon watched as Dwight shared a glance with each of them in turn. Silence stifled them all and Waylon knew then that it was an unspoken rule between them all.

Waylon turned his leg over, eyeing the blood with fear. The pain was horrible and it spread like wildfire up through his ankle and calf. Standing up on it was like he had just been shot, and he knew an infection was spreading throughout it. He steeled himself for the journey ahead.

Waylon Park would not be left behind to die.

Not again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading this chapter! Next should be a bit more exciting, I think, but I do hope this one was not boring or lagged on for too long.  
> Let me know what you think!
> 
> Kind regards,
> 
> HarcourtHolmesII.


	4. A Deadly Grin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings:  
> \- Blood and Gore  
> \- Violence  
> \- Attempted Murder  
> \- Swearing  
> \- Abandonment

‘Shit!’ Waylon’s face was in the dirt, a graze across his cheek from where a rock had met his skin. He looked up to see the others making their way ahead, even Nea who was still favouring her right side was keeping pace, and he just didn’t understand it. He pushed himself up on shaking arms, spitting out mud and grit and grass. His mouth felt dry and the taste of Earth was none too pleasant.

His leg was screaming at him! He heaved his weight up until he sat up, back pressed to the cold, sticky bark of a tree. He could see the shine of flashlights ahead of him, only three between the group of eight, held by Ace, Nea and Dwight respectively. The glare of the light shone deep into the woods, penetrating shadow and allowing sight of the forest and the rare object that littered the path.

About a mile back, they had passed a red roadster, upturned and missing all four of its wheels; a Harley Davidson from the 1980s. It would have been a beautiful vehicle in its prime, but instead, vines had taken a hold of it, choking the side mirrors until they hung loosely from the doors. All of its windows were smashed, the front windshield’s break stained with dried blood. Roaches and flies infested the plush interior and he heard a squeak as he passed it by, unsure if it was the car itself or a dying rat.

Looking ahead of him now, he could see rusted metal jaws just above the height of the grass. Clamped shut, the bear traps were ‘safe’ to touch, but he dare not approach them. He wanted to give them a wide berth, as he could recall Dwight and Kate telling him stories of the monsters that lurked in these woods. One such monster was a bear of a man, tall and built like a brick wall, with sharp metal dug through his flesh. They described brown skin, dry and scarred all over, face covered in a laughing mask. The thought sent shivers through him.

Using the tree as leverage, he was on his feet once again. Stepping forward, he was very nearly back in the dirt, however. His foot couldn’t take it. He couldn’t stand the pain; it was among the worst things he had ever felt in his life.

He tried to imagine a hot bath, medicine clearing away the cut and washing away the splinters of wood that clung to the torn flesh. He wanted to imagine pain killers, dulling the stream of fire to an uncomfortable warmth instead; and how Lisa would come to him in the tub, kiss him upon his forehead and whisper how much she had missed him.

Oh, Lisa.

Tears were welling in his eyes, fat droplets rolling down his face and to the earth beneath his bare feet. He hated this. He hated his clothes; wispy and thin. He hated this place and he hated… Well…

Looking up at the people ahead of him, it felt wrong to say that. Since he had woken up here, these people had aided him, bandaged him and even given him food (as rotten as it was). It felt wrong to say he hated meeting them, even though at least two of them had caused him damage and embarrassment within the last couple hours. Had he met them before, maybe, he thought, they would have been nice to talk to.

However, in this place, everyone was exhausted, hurting and angry. None of them were truly willing to have a kind conversation or just let him explain himself. Despite Kate’s insistence that she and Dwight believed him about his situation, he could see how their eyes dropped to his clothes. They eyed the brand of grey numbers that lined the left side of his brownish jumpsuit. They eyed his hands and where he put them and they watched how he moved with great suspicion and curiosity.

When he heard a scream ahead of him, Waylon suddenly realised how far those little spotlights had travelled without him. He was scrambling forward, clawing at dirt and rocks as he started a horizontal climb past the trees to catch up with them. Even now, his leg was slowing him down, demanding he stop. But the screams were louder.

He approached, in time to see Meg who was dropped to one knee and struggling with a set of iron jaws. Their sharp teeth were buried up to the gums in her leg, her tendons a colourful pink and red spatter. David, Ace and Nea, travelling at the front of the pack, had started off at a quicker pace. Jake and Nancy had completely disappeared from sight, something Waylon had only just noticed. Where were they?! When did they disappear?!

‘ _HELP ME_!’ Meg’s screech pierced the silence of the woods, Dwight and Kate turning on their heels to hurry over. Dwight stopped, eyes wide as he stared off into the dark of the woods, beyond Waylon’s sight. Those eyes widened behind the glasses, and as Kate turned to yell at him, Dwight was gone, taking off at a run in the opposite direction.

‘W-What do I do?!’ Kate was kneeling beside the trap by now as he was beginning to attempt to pry its mouth open.

‘Open it! Pull!’ Her hands grasped the teeth, and Waylon did the same on the opposite side. They pulled with all their might, the reddish rust sealing the trap shut. They tried and they struggled, before they felt any kind of give. Meg’s voice was a shattered cry as the teeth pulled back and with them, thin sinew strings and small chunks of nibbled flesh. Her foot was released, Kate and Waylon’s hands almost immediately taken off by the trap snapping shut.

‘We need to go!’ Kate was on her feet, pulling Meg with her. ‘Can you run?’

Waylon knew he couldn’t. His leg was not done in half as bad as Meg’s, but his injury had time to fester and grow a colony of toxic germs and sickness.

‘I t-think so.’

‘Good. Come on, Meg.’ Kate, with Meg’s arm across her shoulders, started off at a brisk pace. Waylon stumbled to his feet like a newborn fawn and was after them in an instant. Every step was harrowing and he found himself staring down at the ground, awaiting another monstrous mouth of metal.

They were slow. Too slow. He was struggling to keep up, even at their pace. Since the others had disappeared into the woods ahead of them, they hadn’t seen the shine of those flashlights. Through the woods, he could just imagine hulking figures with outstretched hands, and shrieks of fury through the night.

His nightmares had come to life.

For a moment, he didn’t think he had seen it. It was quick, faster than he had imagined, but behind him, he caught sight of a huge figure. Easily seven to eight feet tall, with the glint of silver buried into his right shoulder. How could a man grow to such a size? Those footsteps were heavy, a quick walking pace, and with each step, Waylon was sure he could feel the Earth tremble.

He looked ahead of him, how Kate and Meg were hurrying on as fast as they could despite the injury shared between them. Meg’s calf was hanging on by shattered bone and each step she cried out for everything to hear. Waylon felt sick. If they kept at this pace, they would never get away. The crunch of leaves was getting ever louder behind them now. He caught sight of a light shine in the grass, and he mentally kicked himself for thinking it. Don’t do it!

‘Hey!’ He screamed out, at the top of his lungs. Kate turned her head in shock at him as he veered off course. Hands raised above his head, and stumbling, he was crying out like the wounded animal he was. ‘Help!’ He glanced behind him, watching as how that figure drew closer. Kate and Meg continued their path forward.

‘Park!’

‘Go! Just go!’ He nearly missed his leap. He landed poorly on his right foot and was back in the dirt. The metal jaws were behind him, and he kicked the dirt, spraying a light camouflage of green and brown over them. The figure drew forward; he could barely see their outline in the dark, but as the monster approached, he could see that bony, toothy grin.

The Trapper was upon him.

In his right hand was a flat, thick piece of metal much like crudely crafted machete. It was dirty with dry blood and nails that lined its spine. Said large knife was raised high above the monster’s head as he stepped forth. One foot before the other and then there was a sharp screech of metal.

Waylon pressed himself into the dirt as the machete flew past his scalp. His dirty, blonde hair was blown from the sheer force of the swing, but the monster had stopped. It wasn’t a painful sound, but more an annoyed one. A frustrated sound. Waylon took his chance.

He was scrambling back to his feet, feeling something hot surge through his veins and fuel him into an all-out sprint. Every step was torture, but he kept going until he found a small, hollowed out base of a tree. He pressed himself within; his bad leg, having no place to go, stuck out like a fleshy root. He could see how the bandages had come loose, revealing a great blemish of purple, blue and crimson.

He held his hands to his lips, pleading with his lungs to stop breathing, if only for a few seconds. Heavy footsteps had slowed to a stop somewhere only a few feet from his spot. He could hear the bellows of a bull through that mask, a sound most dreadful. It froze him to his spot. He thought he may just throw up again.

It felt like hours. Slow and long and agonizing hours of the two of them only feet away. One searching and sniffing the air for blood. The other, gagging on every breath and hiding haphazardly in a dead end. The bark of the tree dug deep into Waylon’s back, twigs and sharp branches pulled at his clothes and hair.

Please, he prayed, please just go away.

There was the gruff sound of a deep growl, and those feet rounded the tree. Waylon nearly screamed. He was crying. The hulking beast stepped just over his leg and passed deep into the forest and out of sight. He remained in the hollow tree, waiting. He didn’t know for how long he kept there, but his dinner was threatening to come up by the time he pulled himself forward and out of the hollow.

His prayers were answered.

He was alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this chapter is a good one, as it is very nearly my favourite one to have written! Let me know what you think! I appreciate any and all comments!
> 
> Kind regards,
> 
> HarcourtHolmesII.


	5. Lost and Alone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings:  
> \- Insanity  
> \- Reference / Implication of Sexual Harrassment  
> \- Reference / Implication of Physical Abuse  
> \- Implied Death  
> \- Swearing  
> \- Possessiveness  
> \- Hostage Situation  
> \- Referenced Nudity  
> \- Referenced Genital Mutilation

Where was he?

He had been wandering this dark Eden for ages now; lost and alone. There were no signs, no marks to determine left from right and where one path may lead to home.

Had the trail not been a lonely venture, he would dare say that the forest was a beautiful place. Dark trees that stood strong at the root, the song of ravens and crows high in their branches and the bright shine of the moon. It sat like a pearl on a bed of black satin, lighting up his path like an old, black and white film. He just wished there was someone there that he might share it with.

Dancing with his wife through silver grass blades and the rare, golden blossom that sprouted out like a miniature star, it was almost romantic. His wife would have loved it. He had never the opportunity to take her somewhere before he lost her. Even now, he could see her, in her snow white wedding dress, blonde hair getting tangled as she spun through the evening air.

He reached his hand out to her, and almost immediately, she had vanished into a wisp of fog. A phantom touch, gentle and encouraging, stroked across the broken skin of his knuckles, and he felt he could cry. How wrong it was for the world to take her away; his beautiful bride. Fate was a cruel mistress and the world taunted him of his loss. As the image fell away from his mind and was lost to him once more, he heard a cry.

He thought it another person’s. Perhaps, another lost just as he was.

Instead, his heart was clenched tight in an unforgiving grip, and he could hardly breathe. He sobbed a broken sound.

Oh darling. How could he lose her so soon? How could he have lost her, at all? He would never forgive himself for it.

What a cruel deity, to have cradled his broken body and saved him from a slow death whilst his love had wandered away, lonely and lost in such a dark place. He had attempted to struggle and pull himself free, but instead, it was dark tendrils and sharp claws that had pulled him into the abyss. And now his wife was lost to him, trapped in that unforgiving prison. His love was gone, apart from him forever and he was stranded in a forbidden garden, as beautiful as it may have been.

As he stumbled, he felt his hand sweep across the wood of a tree and felt a deep carving in its flesh. Peering up, he was confused by such a small drawing. It was an X, scratched in haphazardly as if by a small knife or rock. Perhaps these woods were not as empty as he thought. His baby blues followed around the side of the tree, staring through the dark. It was tricky to spot, but then he could see another marking, similar to this one.

He followed them along, slowly at first, tracing each strange X with his fingers. Splinters came off at his touch but the sting was nothing to him. Soon, he started to notice there were other strange tags to certain trees. At once, he spotted a tiny signature sprayed and staining the bark a dark red. ‘Mashtyx’, it read, and he did not understand it. What could it mean?

Curiosity killed the cat, and if he was anything at all, he was curious and encouraged by the idea of finding others in these woods. Perhaps _she_ would be with them.

The thought of her soft skin beneath his hands soothed his worries and the touch of her cheek against his lips had been a sinful affair, last he tasted her; he didn't mean offense when he snuck the kiss. It had worried him for how long his bride had slept and the kiss was one of worry he may not hear her speak again, but he had heard her breathe. He had watched her and had run his fingers through those soft, golden locks. They were shorter than he liked, but anything to make his love happy. He wouldn’t complain.

She had been fit, if a little flat chested, and it seemed there were some secrets his wife had not shared to him. When he had uncovered her, he had been surprised to discover the vulgar piece between her legs. Such a blemish would need to be removed. He had set about making the preparations for it. He needed to be delicate about it, as he did not wish to cause her pain. If he could make the slice quick, then she would be fixed, and no doubt grateful for his hand in helping her.

When that fool had come in, wrenching him away from her, he nearly felt himself explode in anger. How dare that monster try to take his love away from him?! How dare he try to defile her, his chaste and perfect woman?! He had chased him down, but it had appeared some damage had already been done to her. When he returned to her bedside, wiping away the mess that horrid creep had left on his hands, she had run away in fear. Trying to explain to her had been difficult, and he could feel his temper rising as she screamed and ran from him.

Confusion, he had told himself. His darling love would never break his heart like that. She wouldn’t hurt him in such a way. It was all that fuck’s fault- Damn it all. He shouldn’t swear. She didn’t like it when he swore and raised his voice. If only that… _creature_ , hadn’t scared her off, maybe she would be in his arms now. The burn of his knuckles meeting that monster’s teeth and the crack as he twisted his head backwards had satisfied him at the time, but his love had been so horrified of him, and now she was gone.

But as Eddie Gluskin stared at the strange signature and followed the trees back and into the dark with his eyes, he thought for a moment. Perhaps… If he was truly alive and had, instead, been taken, perhaps he was being granted another chance? Maybe, just maybe, his love wandered these woods lost and crying out for him to find her. He would have to apologise, of course, but then he would wrap her up in his arms and never let her go.

First though, he had to follow the trail. Without it, he would be forever adrift in this dark ocean of trees. He would find her. He would take her into his arms and kiss her there, on the lips for the first time. He could only imagine what she properly tasted like; it would be all the more sweeter once he had the real thing in his grasp.

‘Darling, my love and my sweet~…’ He sang out to the surrounding foliage, a smile creeping its way across his wounded face.

‘I’ll find you yet, and I’ll bring you home.’ He received only a choir of caws from the fowl in the branches.

‘I’ll keep you safe, for evermore.’

Eddie Gluskin would never break his promise. He would keep her safe, even if he had to break her legs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you guys think! It is about time we see a few different things converge, and goodness knows that what is happening is not a good thing!
> 
> Kind regards,
> 
> HarcourtHolmesII.


	6. The Bastardized Themis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings:  
> \- Mention of Torture, Raped and Murder  
> \- Torture  
> \- Murder / Death  
> \- Referenced Psychological Torture  
> \- Blood and Gore  
> \- Violence  
> \- Abandonment  
> \- Swearing

‘Fuck… Fuck. Fuck! FUCK it all!’ Waylon felt the frustration tear through his vocals and escape his lips. The building that blotted out the moon from sight was nothing like described; there was no little white sign that read ‘Lampkin Lane’, and no row of gingerbread houses. He was sick of it.

He had no doubt there was a code or something that the others used to determine which path led to their current safe house, but he had no idea which one to follow! First, he had stumbled upon a large home that was perched high up on a stone foundation; surrounded by dirty fields of rotten corn. Then, he had stumbled into a run-down church with broken windows and a chandelier’s shattered body on the floor. And now, he was looking up at the high warehouse doors of some butcher’s factory. He could hear the machinery within; a cacophony of active engines and saw blades.

He had been ‘walking’ for well over two hours now, he was sure of it. And all he had to show for his work was the growing swell in his ankle and the blossoming stain of red tracks in the dirt. He had avoided the bear traps and the figures that wandered the woods, but he had lost Meg and Kate hours ago when he had drawn the Trapper’s ire. There was no way on God’s green Earth that David would return and after what he saw of Dwight, he expected he wouldn’t likely see that boy come back looking for him.

Out here, Waylon was defenceless. Every new location he came across, no matter how foreboding, was a tempting place to hide and stay the night. Even now as he looked up at the warehouse’s cement walls, chipped white paint and giant steel doors, he felt it a safer space to hide than out in the dark. At least inside, there may be some light and if the machines were going, maybe he could find something to eat. It was a meat packing plant after all. His stomach groaned in agreement. Only two hours since he had last ate, but Waylon’s body had already spent the energy from his dinner, keeping him moving despite his leg’s damning wound.

In spite of his hesitance, and Dwight’s words ringing in his ears to keep moving, the bitterness that Waylon felt from being abandoned again had stuck with him. He could recall how guards and doctors alike had left him and many others to their fate; being tortured, raped and murdered, and not necessarily in that order. He had felt anger swell in his chest when that guard had shouted ‘it’s not even human anymore!’ The man had slammed a door in his face and locked him out in a hallway filled with carnage. Then there was Jeremy Blaire; his boss, his supervisor’s supervisor. Waylon had been so close to calling the police, even the military if he could get a hold of them, and when he had finally come upon an undamaged radio, he felt he could weep in relief. Right as he had turned the dial, Jeremy Blaire of all fucking people, in his crisp suit and with only a baton, had survived the journey to the tower. And smashed the radio into pieces.

Meg and Kate, he could understand. After all, Meg’s injury had near cut her leg in two at the calf. Kate, ever the helpful and rather kind presence, had gotten her up and moving. He knew it was on him that he had run and drawn the Trapper’s attention, but he had hoped that maybe someone would have stayed behind. Maybe someone would have explained in further detail the difference between the markings. Instead, he had been asked if he could run instead of crawl, and then was left behind to fend for himself out in the wilds. And he hadn’t even been a part of a trial yet.

With bitterness and frustration and upset broiling into a sickening stew in his stomach, he stumbled closer to a small, side entrance. It was a grey, rusted iron door, and he rested his hands upon its long, vertical grip, worried about how it groaned from disuse. The door, with effort, was pulled back, allowing him a view into the building. It was an open space, and to his right he could see how the warehouse garage doors opened into a lowered space with shipping containers.

It was bright, and his eyes were stung by the white lights that glared down from the rooftop. The machinery was louder, but he couldn’t determine where the sound was coming from. In all directions, there was the echo of grinding gears and rusted metalwork; ahead, there was open warehouse space, taken up by boxes and crates and a peculiar item he had never seen before. It caught his eye, and he felt a shiver go up his spine at its appearance.

He stepped cautiously into the factory’s halls, and started forward. Eyes were peeking around for any kind of movement; survivor or… He approached the first, open hall. It was surrounded by door frames, opened wide so he could see into each, adjacent room. To his right, there was a stairwell, and to his left, there appeared to be a drop that was used as a way of moving larger items up or down the building’s floors. The strange device before him, however, he just didn’t understand it.

It stood out from the rest, as this strange machine, with a caged bottom, revealing what looked like fine, clear, rubber tubing. The tubing ran down in a swirl towards a plastic bottle atop scales, marked in clear, black pen ‘ONE LITER’. The top of the machine had two holes, about a size that he could fit his hand into if he dared. He didn’t dare to. Peering into the dark holes, he couldn’t spot a plug or port at the end, and Waylon could conclude it was not something that required a hose to be slotted in. No. Looking above the machine, perched atop it, was a strange puppet. Somehow, Waylon recognised it.

It was a white ‘figure’ with red swirls over its bulbous cheeks, and deep, red eyes that stared far off. It wore a little suit, and perhaps it would be almost comical if Waylon was not already aware that he recognised it. He had spent a lot of time on the internet, as that IT guy that liked to be informed of most anything; he remembered how, before he became an employee at Mount Massive, he looked into things before he arrived. He had heard of its reputation across the world, but trying to research its dealings, he had hardly found anything negative about it.

One thing he did find in his search was how Mount Massive, now solely funded and supported by the Murkoff Corporation, used to be more inclusive in its supporters. One such company was Umbrella Health Insurance, a company that most employees associated themselves with, but with which contracts were very suddenly dropped. He had looked into it; why this would happen, and discovered something truly horrific.

He had uncovered news reports, magazine articles, blog posts and even some confiscated video files that had made their way onto the World Wide Web. It was a sick fascination, but he had been curious, and even questioned if such horrid acts were true. Still, it didn’t seem to be false, or like a ‘creepypasta’ passed around the internet.

No, those sheet covered bodies laid on the pavement outside Rowan Zoological Institute were very real. Police filed between them in the photographs, paramedics caring for those injured by their ordeal. All of them women, two seemed to be in shock, blood covered but uninjured, whilst the other was an older woman with a horrid wound on her throat, covered by a white towel. You could see how the blood was not much, so it was not too serious an injury, but she was crying in the news report, and holding her throat like she couldn’t breathe.

Some blog posts he encountered referred to it all as a sick game by a psychopathic copy-cat killer. Others praised the torturer, referring to him as ‘Judge, Jury and Executioner’, or ‘the Themis we so desperately need’. It made him sick to think there were some people comparing this horrid fuck to a Greek goddess of Justice. But then, after all this, he found footage of the ‘games’.

One was over an overhead camera, staring into a glassed room, with a short drop, but two figures, scrambling on tip-toes, trying not to fall. One, he recognised as the woman from the back of the ambulance, and the other was a young man. Both had barbed wire around their throats. The video had been shortly taken down after its release to protect the identity of the woman and to not allow for, Waylon assumed, any sick people to get pleasure out of their suffering.

But then there were other videos. The worst one he could recall was uploaded to a strange blog. There was no follower count displayed, and the screen was dark when you entered it, but the first video shown was simply titled ‘justice’. It was a horrid game of shotgun carousel, with six people tied down and bargaining for their lives. When the first gunshot went off, Waylon had slammed the laptop shut and had taken off for the bathroom to lose his lunch. He was so glad that his sons were at school at the time and Lisa was out with her sister.

He had deleted his history, managed to block the website from future searches and had taken to simply watching the sports channel for the rest of the day. Coffee in hand by the time Lisa had returned home with the boys, she had noticed he was shaking, and how even though he was staring at a baseball game, he was not paying any attention to it. She had offered to massage his shoulders, had pecked his forehead, and asked he tell her what was wrong. He dared not, and it was a secret he still kept to this day.

But what had caused Waylon’s breath to catch in his throat at this very moment, stifling any and all oxygen from entering into his lungs, was the realisation that he recognised that doll. He had seen it over that disgusting blog’s wallpaper, he remembered how its face had made magazine covers, and how it was there in every piece of grainy footage uncovered from the Rowan Zoological Institute.

It was a call sign. Much more specifically, it was the call sign of the serial killer, Jigsaw. And it was here. Sat before him atop a strange machine.

He hadn’t heard the door shut, but when he had turned to face where he had come from and run, he was greeted by his escape sealed. He didn’t think it automatically closed.

He heard it first; a gruff sound. Like a weak bellow from deep within the gullet of a beast. There was the smell of rotting skin, and Waylon turned in time to see it approach him, faster than he had ever seen someone move. He had fallen back, off his ankle. He had collapsed to the floor, and as he raised his arms to defend himself, he felt a knife embed itself through the muscle of his right hand. He screamed as it burned, and then there was a sudden slam of a leather boot to his temple. It was harder than Meg’s, and not a tease like _his_ own boot. Instead, it cracked across his skull, and he felt his head roll and his brain collide with his own head. He was dizzy.

The pig-faced figure kicked him again, and he was out like a light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait! I hope this is a chapter worth the wait. I enjoyed writing this one, and I would love to hear your opinions in the comments. It means so much for me to read, whether it is or isn't critical. Our dear Waylon is in danger! I wonder if he will be saved in the next chapter?
> 
> Kind regards,
> 
> HarcourtHolmesII.


End file.
